The Devil's Mark
by SparxFlame
Summary: Do you know what it's like when your parents are decent churchgoing folk and you happen to be born with the devil's mark?" The life of a warlock in the 13th century is not an easy one. Drabble series on Magnus Bane. On hiatus.
1. Birth

_**Birth**_

_'"You know what it's like when your parents are good churchgoing folk and you happen to be born with the devil's mark?" He pointed at his eyes, fingers splayed.'  
Magnus Bane  
City of Bones, Pg 215_

Magnus Bane was born unusually quietly. _Unnaturally_ quietly. Well, dangerously quietly, really, because in the 13th Century you couldn't be unusual. Not if you want to live. His parents are prepared to overlook the unnatural quietness though. They've wanted a child for so long they thought it might be too late. Surely a healthy baby boy at their age - and with an easy birth, too - must be a blessing, a gift from God?

His father holds him for the first time, a delicate newborn only seconds old. The hand supporting the child's head sinks into a thick layer of dark fuzzy hair - he frowns. The hair is more like that of a two moth old, not a two minute old. But it's not too strange - the child will grow into it in time. No, not the child. Magnus. Magnus Bane. His son. The chi- Magnus stirs in his arms, felxing his fingers gently.

Both parents lean forwards to watch as their child opens his eyes for the first time. They are not a sentimental couple, but this is their firstborn, a new and exciting experience. Magnus' eyes snap open without hesitations, eager to see and learn and savour this new world he's been born into.

The reaction he gets is neither welcoming nor expected.

His mother screams and recoils, horrified. His father places him quickly in the cot and backs away, revulsion written plainly on his face. This is no blessing, they think, but a curse. A changling, straight ffrom the Devils arms. Magnus looks curiously around with luminous eyes a shade of green rarely seen in humans. His parents stare at him in loathing, and he stares innocently back with slit-pupiled cats eyes.

In the 13th century, where a birthmark i the wrong place can have you killed, Magnus Bane has been born a demon. He has been born with the mark of the Devil.

* * *

**This will eventually have Malec, so if you don't like, don't read. :D Please review?**


	2. First Death

_**First Death**_

_'"You know what it's like when your parents are good churchgoing folk and you happen to be born with the devil's mark?" He pointed at his eyes, fingers splayed. "When your father flinches at the sight of you and your mother hangs herself in the barn, driven mad by what she's done?"'  
Magnus Bane  
City of Bones, Pg 215_

"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" snarles his father, looking down at him. Magnus shudders and doesn't say anything. "Answer me!" The blow to the side of his face is hard but not unexpected, and he doesn't fall. In the corner his mother gasps slightly.  
"I didn't do it," he whispers quietly, afraid to say the wrong thing. "I didn't do it, I swear. They were coming towards me and then they just kind of... fell. Like they tripped or something. Into the river. It wasn't me, I wasn't anywhere near them!"

It's the wrong thing to say. Hands grab his hair and force his head back, pinning him to the wall as he struggles. "Am I supposed to suppose," whispers a voice above him in dangerously calm tones, "that the fact that these boys happen to be fellows that you don't get on with is a complete coincidence, then?"  
"Yes," he says, voice slightly stronger. Maybe he hasn't said the wrong thing. The hands leave his hair, and he relaxes.

It is a mistake. The hands return, tightening this time around his throat like an iron collar. He yelps, foolishly using up most of the oxygen in his lungs, scrabbling at the hands that are slowly but surely choking him.  
"If you won't speak the truth, boy, then you won't speak at all." The words are distant and almost impossible to understand because the world is bluring and his brain doesn't seem to be working. There is screaming and wailing and shouting and swearing, but he doesn't hear, doesn't care. The hands tighten a final time and he shivers, collapsing headlong into the darkness in front of him.

When he wakes, the house is dark, quiet and almost imperceptibly _wrong_. The air is still and flat, like cider left uncorked for too long. Missing something. A tingle of _something_, running up his spine, makes him flinch - it is the same feeling from the riverside, where the boys fell...

There is a tugging at his stomach and he follows it, a strange sense of nausea welling up in his throat. He walks outside the house and follows the tugging across the cracked paving slabs towards the old barn. The nausea is building. The barn is empty, hasn't been used for years due to the fact that the roof's come off, leaving just large, wooden beams criss-crossing the sky. If he is honest with himself, it scares him.

He approaches the barn door and feels shivery and strange, like when he had a fever three months back. There is a thrill running up and down his spine, and what feels like a rock lodged in his stomach. The door creaks when he opens it, and the first smell that hits him is one of damp hay and straw. Rusting metal is next, the strange coppery tingle on his tounge.

And finally, Death. He had had no idea Death had a smell until now, when it hits the back of his throat like a slimy, congealed... something. It makes him feel sick, and when he lifts his eyes and sees the body hanging from the rafters, he is sure he shouldn't be surprised. The strange tingling is back, sharper this time, and his voice seemes stronger than it has any right to be as he calls out, "Hello?"

The body is swinging slowly, and it is blown around to face him. He feels sure he should be screaming and crying, but he hasn't the breath. He stands there, shivering uncontrollably in the mild summer air, staring at the empty face of his mother. Then, ever so slowly, he backs away into a corner of the barn and throws up, the nausea and his churning stomach finally getting the better of him. Afterwards he crawls out of the barn and curls up on the damp grass, still shivering. Finally his eyes close and he slips into an uneasy, haunted sleep.

He will awake the next morning to screaming, as his father finds the body.


	3. Second Death

**_Second Death_**

_'"You know what it's like when your parents are good churchgoing folk and you happen to be born with the devil's mark?" He pointed at his eyes, fingers splayed. "When your father flinches at the sight of you and your mother hangs herself in the barn, driven mad by what she's done?"'  
Magnus Bane  
City of Bones, Pg 215_

He sits on the floor, dark hair falling over his forehead and eyes as he absently examines the small stones he has collected - another thing his father hates. He should be interested in farming and hunting and all those other 'manly' things. Not stones. But there is something hypnotising about the smooth cool of them, the tiny, brilliant lights that flash and change as he moves them. The way that sometimes, if he holds them and thinks in the right way, he feels that ripple up his spine and the stones _glow_. He's never let anyone else see that.

"Magnus?"

He looks up at the voice, allowing the smooth fragments to fall through his fingers. His father stands in the doorway, looking tired but decisive - and pleased with whatever decision he has made. Magnus tries a tentative smile, and is amazed to see the answering grin on his father's face. It's been a long time since that face looked at him with anything other than hatred and fear.

"I was wondering if you'd come down to the creek with me. There's something I'd like to show you."

Startled, he feels his eyes widen and his mouth open to argue. He quickly clamps his mouth shut and nods. Whatever strange, soft-hearted mood his father is in, he doesn't want to ruin it, doesn't want to spoil the first civilized conversation he's had with him in years - since his mother killed herself, he thinks. Pushing himself gracefully to his feet, he follows the older man out of his room, down the stairs and out the front door.

He likes the creek. He goes there often, when he wants to be alone, or to think, or to just get away from... _everything_. He finds nice stones here, smoothed by the water. They're the ones that glow the best, better than the ones he finds in the woods or in the farming fields. And sometimes, when they break open, there are small, glittering lights inside, reflected off of what looks like shards of glass. His feet follow the path automatically, tracing the familiar footsteps behind his father, until they turn off onto an unfamiliar path and he nearly stumbles, jarred out of some natural rhythm he'd fallen into.

Now he's paying attention, he can see that the calm his father had earlier is gone, along with the smile he wore. There's a nervous, excited expression there now, and his shoulders are tense, fingers knotting and unknotting themselves and they hand by his side. As if he can feel the gaze of his son, the man turns and smiles distractedly at Magnus, before looking at the sun as it sits low on the horizon, and speeds up the pace of his walking. Magnus glances at the sun too, noticing the orange-red hue of the sky around it, and shivers. He's not superstitious -_not like those idiots at the village_, he thinks contemptuously - but he can't help thinking; blood will have blood, as they say.

They arrive by the edge of the creek just as the bottom of the sun touches the earth. The sky deepens almost instantly to a crimson blood red. The river is deeper here, water running swiftly over treacherous rocks submerged deep beneath the waterline. Only sprays of white foam on the surface betray their presence. Magnus has never been to this spot before, preferring the calmer, smoother waters, and he doesn't like it. The hairs on the back of his neck prickling, and he slips one hand into his pocket and runs a hand over the rock there, thumb smoothing over its rough surface. He wishes he could take it out and make it glow, illuminate the darkness that is steadily falling, but his father is still watching him. Such a move would be more than suicidal, no matter how much the action would calm him.

There is rustling behind him, and he spins around, slit-pupiled eyes squinting into the gloom. His father moves closer behind him, pulling him back slightly until he is inches away from the waters edge. He doesn't question the movement, has never questioned anything his father has done to him. In some small, dark recess of his mind he knows he deserves it - otherwise, why else would his father do it to him?

As he watches, people emerged from the bushes. Men, whom he knows as friends of his father, appear on by one, forming a loose semi-circle around Magnus and his father. Magnus glances behind him and looks at the river, before turning back and looking at the ring of grinning faces. Finally, he turns to face his father. The older man was pale, very pale, forehead shining with sweat.

"So, you came, then? Thought you might be too scared."  
The men seem to be ignoring him, addressing his father directly. The voice that speaks is deep and growly, with the hint of a sardonic laugh waiting to be voiced.  
"Ye- yes." His father is hesitant and nervous. "I'd never let- let you down." He laughs anxiously.  
The other men laugh along with him - but not in the nice sense. Magnus flinches, wrapping arms covered in goosebumps around his shoulders.  
"Get on with it then!" _This_ voice is gruff, impatient. "We've not got all night."

Magnus looks confusedly at his father, feeling- he's not quite sure. Betrayed? Upset? Angry? He doesn't understand what's going on, and he doesn't understand how he's feeling. He just stands there, looking at the man that's made the last few years a living hell for him, taking in his worried eyes, nervous movements. _What's going on?_

"Magnus. Come here."

He complies, turning to face the water with his father at his back, watching the swirling, shifting patterns. One of his hands drops again to his pocket, worrying at the stone that sits there.

"Look closer."

He crouches down, peering closely at the rolling, deeply sapphire surface, and sees, dimly, his father behind him, one hand coming down towards his back. A sudden rush of understanding comes to him, and he tries to twist around, to get out of the way, but it's too late and-

Water. All around him, rushing in his mouth and nose and ears and he can't breath, he can't see, he can't think, he can't _anything_, and he's _so, so scared_. Trying to drag in a breath, he chokes, feeling the water rush down his throat. His eyes open in surprise, staring at the murky bottom of the river, at the jagged rocks, and he wonders if he'll die here, water in his lungs and body trapped in the blue dusk between the grey-brown stone with the glittering lights...

_Lights._

A rush of remembering brings the memory off the glowing stones, lighting up the night, and how the ones from the river work best, the ones with the light already inside. _These ones, they have the have the light on the outside,_ he thinks, _so they might work even better_. A distraction, maybe long enough for him pull away from the hands around his neck and wrists, to run away - anywhere would be better.

His body is screaming out for oxygen as he closes his eyes, calling up the warm, gentle feeling he remembers so well from the rocks, recalling it as vividly as possible, and then the shudder running up his spine is there. It feels as if he's opened his eyes again, but a different set - one that is far inside him, in his chest, and despite the dizziness from lack of oxygen it is the most wonderful sensation he's ever felt. Carefully, with hands that don't seem quite real, he reaches out for the rocks, brushing lightly over them and calling up the memory of light from deep within.

The response reaches him almost instantly, and he screams with the force of it, bubbles streaming out of his mouth as he uses the last of his breath. These rocks are different, so different. The pebbles know light, with a small, gentle touch of heat. These rocks were born in fire, in heat strong enough to melt stone and boil earth, a heat strong enough to tear across the land in a glowing wave of molten stone. They remember only that boiling, searing fire and they pour it directly into Magnus' bones, answering his command with sun and fire. He struggles with the unbearable pain for a moment, before releasing it, channelling it towards the restraints around his neck and wrists.

The response is instant release - he drags himself from the river, on hands and knees, retching up water as he shakes with fear and adrenalin and that strange, shivering sensation still rippling through his spine. After all he water has left him, he pulls himself upwards, aching from the fire of moments ago.

The faces of the men around him move from the young, bedraggled boy in front of him, with the burns around his wrists and the glowing hands, to the charred form on the ground, eyes wide with horror. Magnus' eyes move with theirs, drawn irresistibly to the dead body of his father, burnt beyond recognition, lying on the floor.

He should feel shocked, sad, sorry, _anything_ – not numb and tired. Not, not… _blank_. But he aches all over and his lungs are burning from the water and the smell of burnt flesh is making him want to throw up again, and he looks at the faces of the advancing men-

-and runs. He doesn't look back, doesn't think, just stumbles almost blindly forward in the near dark, just _runs_.

He's not quite sure what he's running from.


	4. Fear

**The Devil's Mark**

The fathers of the Church accept him. They don't understand him, they don't even necessarily _like_ him, but they accept him. They give him somewhere to eat and sleep, somewhere for him to recover from his injuries, despite not knowing how he got them. Magnus is thankful for this. He doesn't think he can take any questions at the moment, not when he feels so hollow and empty and fragile inside. He's not quite sure why he hasn't broken down yet, but he thinks that maybe he's managed to freeze the madness inside him for now.

One well-placed question could shatter the whole thing, though. He's not quite ready for that yet.

The shivering sensation in his spine won't go away, though. It's been there since the incident – he doesn't want to think about it, _doesn't want to think_ – so steady and regular he can forget about it for hours. He's not tried to do anything with it yet, but there's an insistent feeling that he should use it, that it's his to wield, whatever _it_ is.

Eventually the urge, itch, whatever, gets too much to bear. Magnus goes for a walk, taking twisting grass paths away from the church so he won't be seen. He doesn't think they'd be so accepting if they knew what he could do. They'd call him all those names he'd heard so many times before; devil, demon child, changeling, fallen angel…

_Maybe that's the truth, though. Maybe I _am_ a changeling. I killed my own father, for the love of God, and I don't even care! What else can I be, other than a monster? Unnatural._

He finds a small spot on top of a hill, with views of the clear blue sky all around as he settles himself in the long grass. It's not warm, but it's clear and sunny, and he can see some sort of bird of prey wheeling in the sky. He feels jealous of it – so wild and free, not being judged or scrutinised every moment of its life. Just free, to soar forever in the clear sky.

Almost unconsciously, instinctively, he reaches out for it. Not with his heart or mind, but with that second self that seems to lodge in his chest, near his heart, the one that sees and hears things no one else does, the one that can call fire from rocks and bring light in the darkness.

Magnus is not entirely sure why he's surprised when he finds himself looking out of the bird's eyes. He should have expect this, should have known-

_Known what?_ He can feel the worries slipping away as he wheels and calls in the air, searching for a small mouse or vole to snatch. He spots one, running through the grass near a still, quiet human's leg. Folding his wings, rolling perfectly against the wind, he falls in an exhilarating dive, plunging towards his prey. The puny creature tries to escape, but he's faster, snatching the small body up and crushing it in his powerful claws.

The human's face, as he passes it, gives him a jolt. It's him, he knows somehow. His, peaceful and still, but belonging to him. He can't quite understand. _This _is him, Magnus, the skin he wears now. But still…

Hopping closer, one wing brushes the him/not him's knee, and his eyes open with a jerk. The world looks fuzzy, out of focus after the clarity of the bird's vision, and he seems too big. His arms don't quite know what to do. Where have his wings gone?

The bird takes off with a screech of alarm and, without knowing why, he calls a thank you to it as he stands up stiffly, trembling from fear. _What did I do? What was that?_ The questions whirl, unanswered, as he slowly takes the path down the hill back to the church.

He picks up a small rock, tossing it up and down as he heads slowly back to the church. This rock feels different to the ones in the river. It doesn't remember fire – it remembers the bones of small creatures, compacted and flattened beneath great pressure. The crushing sensation lasts only briefly before he fights it off, concentrating on the small, white lump in his hand. It turns to water under his grip, water that runs through his fingers carrying small, wriggling creatures.

He rubs his hand on his sleeve, trembling again. He doesn't seem to be able to control this; _if I look at something the wrong way then something goes wrong, I do something I don't mean…_

"Where have you been? We have been looking for you. There are men who wish to talk to you. They have made some… serious accusations."

Magnus turns, sees one of the church members behind him, feels the panic well up in his throat. He can't face this – _Not now, not now, not so soon…_

An idea comes to him, cutting through the panic like a knife, plunging his mind into a clear pool of logic. He doesn't know why this keeps happening, why he can't feel like he used to, why everything just feels cold and blank, but right now he's got more important things to do than grieve.

"You didn't see me."

"I beg your pardon?" The man doesn't seem angry, just confused. Magnus realises his mistake, rectifies it.  
"You didn't see me." _You didn't see me._ He reaches for the man, the same way he reached for the bird, but gentler. Not to grab, just to brush, to push an instruction in amongst the dimly visible ideas that lay half-formed there.

"I… didn't see… you." The man's voice is hesitant, confused.  
"You're going to go back to the man and tell him you can't find me." _Tell him you can't find me_.  
"Can't… find… you?" He's gone from being confused to punch-drunk.  
"Yes. Go. Now." _GO!_  
"Go…" The man wanders vaguely away, and Magnus lets out a shaky breath of relief. He'd had no idea whether it would work, but it had. The power he'd felt, as he brushed the man's mind, the ability to shape and push that small, weak thing in whichever direction he chose… The idea doesn't make him excited, but nauseous, terrified. This power is not natural, too easily abused, too easy lost control of.

And then the entirety of what the man said hits him, and he freezes. _There are men here, looking for you._ His breath comes in small, shallow pants as fear grips him, and he tightens his arms around his shoulders. _They have made some… serious accusations_. He realises with a jolt that he isn't safe, is nothing like safe, will never be safe, will never be far enough away that they can't find him. And with the sickening realisation, he begins to run, feet tearing across the damp grass and taking him away from the church, far away, and although he hears shouting he doesn't once look back.

He's not sure how long he runs for, but by the time he collapses, sobbing and barely able to draw breath, he can no longer see the church.

* * *

A/N I don't own the Mortal Instruments Series - that belongs to CC.


End file.
